Read the Signs
by ImaginationWalks
Summary: Holmes is acting strange and Watson knows something is terribly wrong. But how does he help him? And what exactly happened? Not slash, but strong friendship!
1. One

_A/N: So, oh! I haven't posted a story here in a LONG time, and now I'm so excited! I just thought it would be fair to mention that there will be some inevitable OOC moments, so consider yourselves warned! Also, I want to thank my beta, **ayafangirl**, for correcting this story and giving me an enormous amount of wonderful tips! And if it should happen that you do find some mistakes, they are_ all_ mine. And reviews are, of course, appreciated!__  
_

_**Read the Signs**_

"_There were no embraces, because where there is great love there is often little display of it."_

– _Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote_

I.

It all started one innocent day when Dr. John Watson decided to go for a walk, rather than stay indoors and miss the wonderful opportunity to catch the first rays of sunshine that spring.

The sun was up high and it seemed to have woken up the nature. The birds were singing, the people were laughing, and Watson felt as if through the window he could actually see the grass growing merrily.

It was because of this joyful atmosphere that the sight of his good friend Sherlock Holmes standing right outside his house with a huge wound gashing a part of his leg probably shocked him even more than it usually would.

"Watson."

"Holmes."

Watson avoided the "What on earth has happened to you?" question and guided the injured detective to the nearest chair. Holmes, once seated, opted to say nothing. He just stared blankly – if somewhat sadly – at the wall opposing him.

Watson took care of the red hole in his friend's leg quite professionally, although when he saw it wasn't lethal, the concern faded and Watson started quietly fuming at Holmes' talent for interrupting his free time, which he savored so much. When he finished tending to the wound and returned to the present, a part of that concern returned as well. There were a few moments of silence before Watson gathered the courage to speak.

"Are you all right?" he asked, knowing full well what a pointless question that was, and mentally scolding himself; he knew an unpleasant remark was most certainly coming his way.

"I never said I wasn't," came the quiet, perhaps even strained reply.

"Nonsense! You were bleeding from a wound that wasn't so tiny, after all. No need to act heroic, old boy."

Watson saw something in Holmes' eyes, but he couldn't quite identify it. First, there was a tinge of anger, then of doubt (hesitation maybe?), and finally of a sadness so intense he had to look away. Once he looked at the detective's face again, he saw his never-fading mask – he really did; but he also noticed that it wouldn't last much longer – it was collapsing.

The sad detective took a long, somewhat pained intake of air and choked the words out: "I know," – a gulp – "I'm not all right. Oh, Watson – I'm not all right at all."

Watson was temporarily left in awe of this turn of events that came too suddenly for him to prepare. The look he saw on Holmes' face was not a usual one a person would see, and it scared him – its strangeness scared him.

Holmes' expression was becoming more and more devastated as the seconds ticked by. Finally, the way he looked at Watson was beyond any look he thought Holmes capable of. It was helplessness he saw.

"I...I need..."

"What do you need, Holmes?" curious, but still soft and without pressure.

"I...need to get out." Hurried and mumbled. Holmes got up and surged towards the door. He opened and then closed it with a great thud, and it took Watson a few seconds to comprehend the situation. Once it got to him that he should run after Holmes, he did so only to find him kneeling on the floor right outside the house. His head was in his hands, and his shoulders seemed to be slightly shaking. Watson stopped dead in his tracks.

_But no, there's no way he would..._

Watson thought himself to be the only one who knew all about what to do and how to act around Holmes. But even he was outwitted now – what should he do? What was he even able to do?

He instinctively knelt next to a defeated Holmes and put a hand on his shoulder. It was only then that Holmes noticed Watson's presence, and the shock of realizing he had been seen vulnerable by another human being was enough to make him stop crying at once.

And to Watson, at that precise moment he looked as if he actually had full reign over his emotions – and, quite frankly, he had almost none. Not at that moment, at least. He slowly exhaled and, trying to wipe his face with his sleeve as subtly as he could, he bit his lip hard.

"I'm sorry to have caused you this inconvenience, Watson." Ragged and hoarse. And with that, he got up and walked away slowly. Watson would have attempted to catch and stop him, but he realized that his quest would be futile. After all, he knew.

_Holmes doesn't...care about me. And why would he? After all, I'm just an ordinary army doctor. No, I'm just a_ _doctor, in fact. I didn't even properly show him how fond I was of him during the time we shared the flat in Baker Street – and especially during the final days. I never told him he was the reason I remained sane after Afghanistan. I should have, and now he doesn't know. To him I was just someone who was there to watch his back... He doesn't care about me. Well, not like...that. I doubt he would even call me his friend. And now this...it would just annoy...no...I...he doesn't _want_ me to...no. No. _

He covered his face with his hand and suddenly his chest was on fire, forcing him to send a sudden desperate gush of air flying through his mouth.

_He's too proud, he would _never_ talk to _anyone _about his problems, and I_ _am definitely no exception to that rule._

Holmes had gone away, and Watson was left standing there, more baffled than he had been in ages, a strange painful and swelling sensation contorting his lungs. He let desperation wash over him.

_I don't know what to do._


	2. Two

_A/N: I am so sorry I kept you waiting for so long! Unfortunately, my Internet connection disappeared on Wednesday; it's only by improvising that I managed to find one for a few minutes!_

II.

He lay on the floor, his entire body shaking in attempt to warm itself up. It wasn't working. It didn't matter, though. He was numb. He was _still_ numb.

Just as numb as he had been for the last couple of weeks.

He smiled to himself. The reality – _it_ was over.

He could feel it.

"You are golden, old boy. Don't you forget that. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently. Don't you ever forget that."

He looked at this Watson, a Watson who was a stranger. That wasn't _his_ Watson, and those words he'd uttered, the truth behind them?

They meant absolutely nothing to him.

"No! No! No! _No!_" he shouted, he screamed, his words echoing wildly, endlessly and to no avail. He was disappearing – he was gone.

And _it_ went on, and on and on.

"Do not worry, mother hen. When has anything serious ever happened to me?"

III.

A week had passed, and Watson's worry subsided and he started thinking about that strange event in a way he thought to be quite rational, in fact. He told himself Holmes probably had a bad day, that he couldn't take it anymore, and blew up because of all that pressure – and Watson knew better than anyone else everyone had their limits. He didn't want to admit to himself how vague his explanation was, or that, even though Holmes definitely had a limit, it was very, _very _high. But most importantly, what he avoided thinking about at all costs was the fact that in those seven days that had just passed, he hadn't seen Holmes at all, nor had he heard anything about or from him.

Two months had passed since Watson moved into his new house on Cavendish Place to live with Mary, and he knew Holmes wasn't happy about that. He was proven right when he realized Holmes wasn't planning on letting him - his Boswell, as he liked to say - escape so easily: he came by often to tell the doctor how his cases were progressing, should it happen that the doctor didn't have the time to visit him.

And during _those_ seven days, Watson's schedule was absolutely crammed, leaving him with no time to visit his friend. He would also be lying if he were to say he hadn't been expecting Holmes' visit every single day. But the week had passed, and still he hadn't shown up. Watson, trying not to think of any unfortunate events that might have happened – so that he wouldn't accidentally make them happen by doing so – believed the detective was either on another case, or simply bedridden by the exhaustion, too tired and overwraught, and not in the condition to find any time – or perhaps will – to visit him. That option, aside from being the most comforting one, made him feel slightly guilty for not finding some time to visit his friend after all, especially after what had happened. But in the end, he simply wanted to believe everything was the way it was supposed to be: _Nothing happened, don't be ridiculous – he's fine. You just can't stop worrying about him, not even for a second!_

Thus, he forced himself to think nothing of the detective's absence, although his thoughts did occasionally stray to Holmes and his._..tears. _(And no matter how much he tried, using those two words in the same sentence still sounded wrong, even after what seemed to him to be the billionth time.) So that, usually, he would dismiss those thoughts in the end, saying that he was probably overreacting again and that it was just a temporary weakness, nothing unusual for people who spent all their time hiding their true emotions.

But maybe, just maybe, Watson blamed himself. In the bottom of his heart, he was aware that him leaving Baker Street did actually _hurt_ Holmes. He would occasionally think of Holmes while reading the morning newspapers – a treat he almost abandoned because he would feel inexplicably alone whenever he sat down and opened the first page. He tried to think nothing of that feeling, convincing himself that it would disappear, that it would just take him some time to adjust to a new way of life – with his wife, Mary, and not with Sherlock Holmes. At first, he would read the news on the newest crimes to Mary – and he wasn't sure if he was doing that because he was too used to reading that section every morning, and was simply continuing the ritual, or if he was doing that because, as bizarre as it sounded, he felt as if Holmes was _there _while he was reading. He felt as if Holmes was actually listening to him, no matter where he really was at that moment. Maybe that was the reason he still kept on reading even after realizing Mary wasn't listening to him. "It doesn't matter_, _I'm doing it for Holmes," he thought. And the moment he did so, he knew – he never really read the news for himself. He did that for Holmes.

He stopped reading the news when Mary admitted that she found the aspect of him reading only the _crimes_ section slightly...disturbing.

To be honest, it wasn't easy for him either, to have to say goodbye to Baker Street, so every now and then, when he would feel more guilty about leaving his friend than usual, he would make strange attempts at comforting himself: _"It's not like I was perfectly happy to leave, is it? Yes, he lost me, but I lost him as well – we are adults, and we – especially he – should cope or learn how to cope with loss."_

But there was a problem with that way of thinking – yes, they had lost each other, but Watson left to be with someone else, and Holmes was simply left alone. He never wanted to understand that _that_ was the way things really were. That notion was hidden in the deeper parts of his mind all the time, trying to reach the surface, to make the doctor understand that truth. It was haunting him during the night, while he was in his bed, while his defence was fragile and weak, and while it was easy to push trough and make him see that the poor detective was completely and all alone. However, his mind never succeeded in making him realize that. He didn't let it. He didn't want to know that Holmes was the one who was suffering more, and so he didn't. He wanted to think otherwise.

Mrs. Hudson's urgent telegram took him by surprise – she pleaded him to stop by his former residence in Baker Street and try to get into Holmes' room – the detective hadn't gone out of his room in a week – or more precisely, since the day he broke down in front of Watson.

Watson couldn't get rid of that strange feeling that he had been right, and that something really was terribly wrong. He couldn't quite explain why he felt like that, but the feeling wouldn't go away. After all, it was normal for Holmes to stay chained to his room, and the doctor kept telling himself that over and over and over again as he was walking to his former home in the sun. Nothing was out of the _ordinary_ – everything was just _fine._

When he stepped in the residence in Baker Street, the smell of home-made soup was the first thing that overwhelmed him. He felt an inexplicable onslaught of tears and a heaviness in his chest as the scent got clearer. But not more than a moment later, he felt repelled by this act that he saw almost as not being faithful to Mary, and the home she provided for him.

Before he could ponder over that intruding thought some more, Mrs. Hudson went over to him and gave him a warm hug, and immediately after they exchanged greetings, she was already telling him everything about her suspicions and fears.

"Believe me, doctor, I wouldn't have disturbed you if everything had been going as usual," she blabbered hurriedly, "…but something strange happened last night," as she finished the sentence, her voice faltered. Watson knew this wouldn't be good. He didn't want to imagine what could have happened, and was anxious, but still impatient, to hear the rest.

"I awoke," she continued, "to the sound of someone punching and slamming...well, I'm not sure what was being punched exactly, but it made _great_ noise. My first thought was that Mr. Holmes was working on something. But then I heard voices – at least I think there were more…they were muffled...but unsuccessfully. They were furious." She gulped, but still decided to continue, not noticing the doctor's growing fear.

"Suddenly, they stopped, and all that was left to hear was a frightened voice that was wailing and pleading. I...As much as I want to think otherwise...I believe Mr. Holmes wasn't alone that night. Someone was there, someone was threatening him, and...I don't want to think so, but...I believe that was Mr. Holmes wailing. Maybe the intruders even..." She didn't have to end the sentence to make him understand what she meant. He could already feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"And, oh, I'm so sorry I didn't go upstairs and saw what was going on...I was..._so_ frightened, I..."

"You've nothing to apologize for."

She sighed deeply. "Please, he...he won't let me in. I know he misses you – no, he's never told me that, he's too proud for that, but I know he does. Could you try going into his room? Could you check on him?"

She didn't even have to ask him. He was on his way even before she finished her sentence, running up the stairs to get to his Holmes.

He almost completely forgot to at least attempt to enter Holmes' room politely – by knocking on the door, as he would always do during the time he lived there. A hurried frenzy eclipsed all the sober thoughts in his mind, and he couldn't remember when the last time he felt so worried about Holmes was.

– Or actually, he could: it was during the case he so forlornly wrote and decided, with a heavy heart, to entitle it "The Final Problem" – since, at that time, it most certainly seemed as if it would be their last.

He remembered the cruel feeling in his stomach that started as soon as he set his eyes on his defeated friend that night in his office in Cavendish Place. Well, of course, Holmes tried to put on a show, as usual, and pretend as if nothing serious or grave happened. But the good doctor saw it in the sad detective's eyes. Or, better yet, he didn't see _it_ – and that was the real problem. He didn't see the spark, the excitement of embarking upon yet another case, the aspect that was always there, in his eyes, mirroring the happiness – _his_ form of happiness. The spark was gone, and the scars on his knuckles he tried to hide were there instead. _It_ wasn't there, and the good doctor worried.

Currently, he worried even more. As much as that past event had struck him, at least he was able to see the detective. He had known that, though discouraged and depressed, the detective had been there, breathing and speaking with the doctor, trying to put him at ease in his own Holmesian way. But now, he wasn't there with him, and the doctor couldn't help but think of the worst. He thought of the worst because he couldn't erase the image of the big red gash he saw last week, and the idea of it being something more than just an injury on a case.

He stopped at the door, took a deep breath and knocked. He didn't know what to do – should he come in as he always had? Or should he wait for Holmes to allow him to enter, since he wasn't a tenant here any more? No sound came from the room for at least ten seconds – no, he wasn't counting, of course not.

His impatience got the best of him. He entered the room, trying to act as if he didn't know anything, and as if he simply stopped by to say hello and ask the detective how the things were going, and maybe have a cup of tea, like they used to do in the old days, and talk as if they have absolutely no care in the world -

_Did that make any sense? Reviews = love!_


	3. Three

_A/N: I wanted to upload sooner, but I still don't have an Internet connection at home, which is _extremely _annoying. But I hope this chapter makes up for the delay!_

IV.

The silence greeted him. Not the usual, Holmes-is-thinking-so-you-better-keep-your-mouth-shut silence, but a thick and heavy one. A part of Holmes' figure was noticeable, the detective slumped in his armchair – which was turned with its back towards the doctor – and looking through a window. Well, at least Watson hoped so.

No sound came from Holmes' mouth as Watson approached cautiously, again both impatient and anxious too see his friend. He worried deeply – he worried that Holmes was intoxicated with his seven percent solution (that possibility, as much as it frightened him to admit it, seemed the most benign one), or, if he were to believe Mrs. Hudson, either badly beaten up or – he felt a weight in his lungs – _dead_. He desperately tried to seem like his normal self.

"Hello, old chap." His voice wavered, a mistake he tried to hide with a little laugh as the punctuation.

To his enormous relief, Holmes stirred. He slowly turned his head around to face Watson. His face was deathly pale with bags under his eyes and chapped lips that stretched into a weak smile. "Watson."

In Watson's mind, if he were to write the way Holmes had said his name, he would most certainly punctuate it with an exclamation mark, because of the relief and somewhat childlike happiness that seemed to fill Homes' words. But in reality, the word, Watson's name, was weak. Barely audible, with no strength, no force in it.

Watson was immediately feeling better and safer when he saw that Holmes was here, alive, breathing and talking and _smiling._

"What brings you here?" the detective continued, his voice gaining sound. He turned around some more, to get the better view of his Watson. While he was doing so, Watson thought he saw the detective wince slightly, as his smile faltered. Watson found himself taken aback. Usually, he had to endure Holmes' endless monologues in which he seemed to analyse every single little detail he saw on Watson – but now, he didn't even bother to...

"Oh..." the doctor certainly didn't have the intention of admitting it was Mrs. Hudson's telegram that _brought_ _him_ _here. _"I've missed your company!" he said happily.

Holmes seemed as if unable to get his eyes off of Watson. "You fancy some tea?"

"Most certainly, old boy."

* * *

Tea time passed in mutual silence. Holmes kept looking at Watson intently. Watson again saw a kaleidoscope of emotions in the detective's eyes. This time, it was excitement combined with sadness, and Watson wondered what kind of sadness it was. That was hard to guess, especially because he rarely saw it on Holmes' face, and if he did, it was usually because the case wasn't going well. But Watson knew Holmes wasn't on a case at the moment, and if he hadn't known any better, he would have said his own presence was making his friend sad. He dismissed that right away, and he didn't even bother to think it through. That was absurd.

"What have you been up to lately?" Watson asked, trying to get a conversation going.

Holmes puffed and smiled. "Oh...You always speak of business, old boy. I must say..." he paused and coughed, "...I haven't done anything that would really matter, or would be of any interest to you," he said and started sipping the tea once again.

The issue of Holmes' injured leg was still floating in the air, and Watson thought this was a rather... opportune moment to open the subject.

"Is your leg any better?" Nonchalant.

Holmes seemed to stiffen. The good doctor could see him licking his lips nervously and swiftly, and then felt his own cheeks burning. "It's all right now. Nothing to worry about." Nonchalant, as well.

His mouth seemed to move on its own. "May I ask...however did you get so injured?"

"… I fell while running after a criminal. A rather fast one, I can say. But I'm all right now, thanks to your skills as a doctor," Holmes nodded in Watson's direction, giving him a small and fleeting smile.

Watson chuckled. "You overestimate me. It was a routine procedure."

"How are things going with Mary?" Holmes asked, in an unusually quick and, as Watson saw it, somewhat pained voice. Watson's gaze softened as he felt a sudden sympathy towards the detective spreading through his body. He cleared his throat before answering honestly, knowing better than to hide the truth from Holmes.

"Everything is going fine. I don't believe I could have found a better wife than Mary - I don't think I've ever been happier in my life."

He was looking at his teacup, too nervous to look up, and didn't notice Holmes' eye twitch. But he did hear Holmes' voice, saying: "And Baker Street?"

"What about Baker Street?"

Only when he heard Holmes' words after an unusually long pause did Watson realize that was the most inconvenient thing he could have said. He heard a strained voice tell him, "You couldn't really wait to go away, could you?"

Watson froze after hearing those words. "I...wh-what do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean," the menace in the detective's voice was becoming more and more noticeable, silently breaking through onto the surface, "you couldn't wait for the freedom. For not being the one who had to assist the mad detective."

Watson never thought his words would leave such an impact, especially because he didn't mean them in that way, but now he was forced to straighten things up: "I never said or thought that, not in my entire life! Holmes, you must -"

"Oh? And still, you ran away as soon as you got the chance! You took the first pretty girl you saw, and ran away!" Shaky.

"Don't..." he tried to inhale, but his lungs were swelling, "Is that what you really think?"

Watson saw Holmes was becoming more and more rigid every second, until the anger and desperation made his hands surge towards his face and claw at it.

"_Yes_, yes it is!"

Tears were spilling from the detective's eyes and his voice cracked as he cried out the sentence that pierced the doctor's soul – he was terrified by this person he didn't know. The detective got up – or at least tried to get up. He didn't even get to standing halfway upright before his bad leg made him collapse with a howl of agony onto a small table that separated his and Watson's armchair. A quiet sob –

Then silence.

That was the first time Watson got a good view of Holmes' hip, since his shirt had lifted, leaving the hip revealed for everybody to see. There was almost no skin covering it any more.

Everything came back to the doctor: the injured leg, Mrs. Hudson's fears – punches and kicks – and Holmes saying that he _needed_ something. The anger temporarily subdued.

"Holmes..."

"Out." Harsh, hoarse and growled.

"Holmes, I can _see_ you need help," he blubbered hurriedly, trying to get everything out before Holmes had another outburst, "I..._I'll help you._"

He couldn't say he had a good view of Holmes' face, but he could see his eyes widen, and his mouth form a small "o". And precisely at that moment, Watson was almost certain Holmes would come back to his normal state and maybe accept the offer.

"What's going on, old boy? What troubles you? Tell me – _please, _tell me. _Holmes_?"

A few seconds, a few moments that gave him hope passed before everything went crumbling down.

"Get out. Get out of my room_, _and out of my life! You left me! You left me – I needed you!"

Watson couldn't see Holmes' face, for he had buried it in the cold wood of the table. But he felt the anger and hate Holmes radiated. There was no more sobbing, shaking, or breaking voices.

Only one sentence was now stuck in Watson's mind. _I needed you. _At that moment, he knew – he _had _to help Holmes. Unfortunately, it had to wait; he couldn't do it right away, not when they were both distressed and not thinking straight.

He went out, and with a last, long glance towards his slumped and defeated friend, marched ungracefully out of Holmes' room and out of his life, just as he was ordered.

That didn't mean he did it willingly.

V.

He didn't really remember much. To tell the truth, he didn't _want_ to remember anything. He much rather wanted to behave as if _it _never happened. So that was what he did.

He didn't alert anyone, except for the ones who already knew. He came back to Baker Street, said a silent "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson", ran away before she could notice any of his bruises, scars and wounds and once he was in his room, he locked the door.

During the two weeks that followed, he didn't get out at all. He would lean against the wall and stare at the opposing one for hours. Mrs. Hudson managed to break the process every now and then, entering quietly to give him something to eat and drink. During those short periods, he would try his best to act like himself – he didn't want the nanny to worr- suspect anything.

The idea of revealing the horror of the situation that happened to him to Watson would occur to him once or twice every day, but he didn't have the strength to get to Watson.

He could survive during the day. The night and the darkness it brought along were the problem. During those times, everything would come back to him. He would have nightmares of _them_ approaching with their metal bats, ready to hurt him even worse this time.

He would wake up gasping for air, crying silently.

He was afraid to sleep at first. But the night was long, and he would drift back to slumber against his will, only to return back to that filthy basement filled with pain, and wake up a minute or two after that.

And once awake, he would laugh. Even maniacally sometimes, ever thinking: "Look what has become of Sherlock Holmes and his great mind." And hidden in the back of his mind was always a simple sentence.

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen!_

* * *

He even resolved to dosing himself with his morphine to help him cope, to help him relax and to chase away the nightmares. It worked for some time, until a strange thing occurred.

One night, he let the drug take him away. And it did, but only to an image of his friend, his doctor. At first, he wanted to run away from that image, to forget him. He didn't know why, but the truth was that he felt guilty for not confiding in him. For not telling him what had happened – he saw it as a betrayal.

Sometimes he would have a strange feeling of remembering _how_ he saw Watson while hallucinating in that drugged state. He remembered him saying that Holmes was golden. But he wasn't sure if that really happened.

After a while, he stopped being sure that the imaginary Watson wasn't in fact the real one. In the end, he surrendered to him anyway, letting the phantom comfort him while the detective was slowly losing his sanity. He would extend his hands toward this Watson and murmur silent pleas, silent exclamations of hope: "Watson is here, Watson, Watson..."

His words would dissolve into nothingness as he would be able to get some sleep, crushed by the layers of the drug, exhaustion and aided by his belief of Watson keeping him safe.

* * *

During some other days, he would try to get his mind to concentrate on something other than the horrors he saw. He would then work with his chemicals, trying to find an even stronger drug to make him forget he even existed. When he was sure he found what he had been searching for, he would test it on himself.

Unfortunately, he wasn't always right about his predictions. Once, it so happened that he quite foolishly injected himself with a hallucinogen, and it all ended up with him transported to a dark, ungodly place, where he saw people without faces – still, he was one hundred percent sure those people were _them._ He saw them approaching Watson, who was tied up to a wall, unconscious. The only thing the detective was able to do was scream. He couldn't move, couldn't run over and save his friend. He saw how _they_ were getting closer and closer, all of them hunched and walking like a pack of bloodthirsty hyenas towards the doctor.

He had to close his eyes when they finally got to the doctor, for he had no courage to face the monstrosity of what they were doing. However, his head was suddenly full of piercing noises and shrieks and terrible, terrible, mocking, mad laughter.

He felt tears slide down his cheeks – tears he would usually despise and erase as fast as he could, but now, those tears were just a daily recurrence. He felt them as he screamed wildly for help, turning and bucking against his strains. As he turned around, he saw that, in fact, his only restraint was a rope tied to his leg. Somewhere in the distance, silence was residing, and Holmes felt sick in his stomach.

He felt a knife he lately started carrying with himself in his pocket, took it and in his intoxicated and delirious state, tried to cut the rope and free himself.

That was why, when the high ended and he was back on Earth, he found himself laying wounded on the floor of his room.

He remembered running to Watson's new home as fast as was able to, having put an almost completely torn gauze over the ghastly wound. When he finally reached his goal, it took him a while to compose himself. He was afraid. He was afraid of facing Watson, his good doctor. The one he had blamed before.

It was true, he had blamed the doctor. Blamed him for leaving so abruptly. He spent the first few weeks hating him, and what seemed his ability to forget him instantly. One day he was there, sharing his life with Holmes, and the other he was gone, flew away with his darling wife. It was true: he felt betrayed at first.

As the days went by, the poor detective started missing his doctor. He started feeling bad for thinking all those things he had thought. And when the incident happened he craved his doctor, he was dying to see his friend, he was giving every ounce of his mental strength to succeed in making an image of his friend in his head. That was what kept him alive – the hope of seeing Watson, _his _beautiful Watson.

When they got him out, he instantly decided to get in touch with Watson. He immediately ran away with the policemen, away from _them_ and away from the dark of that terrifying basement. He used the first chance he got to call his friend.

A friend who wasn't there. He remembered the excitement of thinking he would hear him once again, a sensation that made all the other thoughts disappear from his mind. There was nothing else but Watson, Watson, Watson, Watson. But the voice that answered wasn't his. It was _hers, _telling him to leave them alone – telling him Watson didn't want or need him in his life anymore.

A sense of dread - blood-stopping, sheer and engulfing dread washed over him. He kept telling himself she was wrong, she must have been; Watson would _never… _He decided the next time he saw him, he would ask him about it. It wasn't true. It _couldn't_ be true. Holmes had to admit that, human relationships weren't perhaps his area of expertise, but he knew it simply couldn't be that, after all they've been through together, he would be the only one still feeling the bond that threatened to rip away his insides, and Watson would forget him as if he was no-one.

But he had to admit he was alone now. Maybe she had been right. Maybe he really was no-one – only a wreck with nothing to show but his brains – not even a heart, which, he thought, was what Watson valued more. Maybe he really was, in that way, _no-one._ And that is why he had ended up coming back to the empty Baker Street.

But now it was different. He was there, probably not even a few footsteps away from Watson. At first he was afraid to knock or ring the doorbell. He didn't want the same thing, _her, _to happen again. And that was why the good doctor found the poor detective standing at the door outside his house.

"Watson." The word he cherished the most – the word that always rolled from his tongue in the most perfect way. It always tasted sweet.

"Holmes." He saw the good doctor casting a glance at his wound while saying his name. Holmes kept quiet. He didn't want to ruin the moment. He let himself be guided to the armchair, surrendering himself to the doctor's touch.

He didn't know why he let his emotions get the better of him that day. He felt as usual – usual as in feeling the way he felt after _the incident – _usual being anything _but_ usual _– _but now he there was a hint of happiness, true happiness that seemed to grow and grow while the detective regarded his friend's features frown and lick his lips in complete concentration as he was tending to Holmes' wound. He was with his friend, and he was happy again.

A simple and completely reasonable question was the trigger. "Are you all right?" He felt the blood drain from his features, he felt the full impact of all the things he had done in the weeks before. The helplessness, the fact that he couldn't get out of this situation. He felt obliged to answer nonetheless. "I never said I wasn't." Truth, but also a lie.

That was the point of no return. He couldn't subdue the growing pressure in his lungs. After Watson's sentence that hadn't even registered in his mind, he heard himself saying: "I know. I'm not all right. Oh, Watson - I'm not all right at all."

From that point on, he couldn't take it any more. The hours and days and weeks of subdued sadness erupted, and the good doctor was there to witness it all. He was there because _he_ was the only one who could help him. And Holmes wanted to let him know that. The words raced through his mind and he wasn't able to stop them. _I need you – I need your help. _But they never passed his lips.

Watson was concerned, and Holmes' quick eye saw it. But he wouldn't let him see his weakness just yet. So he ran out saying that was what he needed.

"I need to get out."

Tears blurred his vision, and he ran swiftly through the door, slamming them to make sure Watson would be discouraged, or would simply accept he wasn't able to do anything, or would just leave it be – or – he didn't even know what he thought anymore – that – that he _wouldn't_ _follow__._

He was wrong. Watson did follow, and saw Holmes' breakdown.

It was only when Holmes was once again in Baker Street that he realized he forgot to ask Watson whether he still needed _him_.


	4. Four

_A/N: Just when I got the Internet back, my school decided to become hell on earth, and that's why it took me _this long_ to update! :S Also, I'm not sure I'm completely happy with this chapter, but I just didn't want to keep you waiting any longer, so here we go!_

VI.

Watson knew he shouldn't stay away – there were way too many flinches, twitches and mood changes that were constantly screaming for his help, even though Holmes tried to hide them. It was only later, when he was walking back home from Baker Street, that he realized what a disgrace would it be if he hadn't noticed them – especially since he spent the last years studying the art of observation and deduction from him.

So the next day he decided to go to Scotland Yard. He supposed Lestrade would be there, and what Watson intended to do was to get some information about Homes' last cases, the ones he didn't get the chance to witness. He reckoned Holmes wouldn't tell him anything about them if asked – or, even worse, that he wouldn't be in the state to tell him.

He got there in the early morning and started asking around for Lestrade. After what seemed to him to be years of watching the other policemen shrug, "umm", shake their heads and tell him "You should ask there, they might know!", he finally managed to find the inspector who had only then passed through the main entrance, looking dishevelled and tired. Following him was his troupe of policemen. As Watson approached them, he heard Lestrade say, in his most cheerful manner: "All right, lads! So _maybe_ the cat isn't in the bag just yet, but trust me: tonight the culprit won't know what got him!" He tried to deliver his best pep-talk, but in the end it turned out flat and he sighed: "Dismissed." The next thing he knew, Watson approached him.

"Well, good morning, doctor!" he called out, surprised. Watson quickly delivered his: "To you too, inspector," after which Lestrade decided it was best to get to the point:

"I suppose Holmes brought you here, ey?"

Watson smiled slightly at the confidence bursting from the inspector. "Well...yes, as a matter of fact," he admitted.

Lestrade seemed to straighten up: "Knew it!" he said proudly. He swallowed a bit uncomfortably. "Has he recovered?"

Watson was, at first, confused. "From ... wait ... is this about the leg?"

Now it was Lestrade's turn to be taken aback: "What?"

"W-well..." The uncertainty and hesitation in Watson's voice were rising, and Lestrade thought it best to take them somewhere they could talk. "Wait, wait; let's sit down first, and I'll tell you everything."

Watson let himself be guided to the nearest chairs, his mind reeling with confusion. "Take this one, 's the comfiest one, trust me." Lestrade urged him to sit and took the place next to him.

"No, wait," Watson began, "you mean to ask about his leg? Yes, I've seen it, it's...nasty, but..."

"Leg? I didn't see anything wrong with the leg...I mean, hip doesn't really equal leg, right? Now _that_ was a painful sight to see, his hip, and not to mention the rest of..."

"What?" Watson was starting to realize that they weren't talking about the same thing.

Lestrade stopped abruptly: "What do you mea..." and then hesitantly: "You know what I'm talking about?"

In his mind's eye, Watson suddenly saw Holmes' hip as he'd seen it when his friend collapsed on the table. "Wait...but that hip...that was just an ordinary injury? Well, not _ordinary_ as in superficial, but he'd probably just had a really nasty fall, hadn't he?"

Lestrade was silent, and it seemed to Watson that he was thinking about how to start.

"Well...in fact, it's about his last case," Lestrade began, "And I am sure you've heard plenty about it, 'cause we couldn't really keep it quiet...'twas that gang of…well, _robbers _actually, but whenever they went somewhere, they would create quite a…havoc – you know, they would always leave about 5 to 6 victims – most of them injured, missing a limb, even…" he swallowed, "raped. I had a… slight problem coming to the scene of the crime every night."

Oh, Watson remembered that time all right – the "three weeks of terror" for the citizens of London. Not so many people would go out any more – at least not after the sun went down. Then, not a person could be seen on the street – everybody was locked up in their homes. He remembered how frightened Mary was, and how she always made sure he was home on time.

He had suspected Holmes was working on the case, but the news of their final arresting didn't mention him once, and Holmes never told him anything about it during their conversations, so Watson simply assumed it was (for once) Scotland Yard who did all the work. But then, he remembered he hadn't seen Holmes once between the time the criminals got arrested and the day Holmes showed up injured. And after all, Holmes would have never missed out on it...

_God, I've been so naïve!_

"He never told me anything about it."

"And the newspaper didn't mention his involvement, I know … Well, he – and the Yard as well – asked them not to, actually."

"But why? Surely, he must have been thrilled to catch such criminals, I know him!"

"You'll see," Lestrade leaned forward and the story began: "So, we called Holmes to help us, 'cause the public were frightened out of their wits by then, and we were at the end of ours, as well. Well, you know... it's always like that in the end." Watson couldn't help but smile slightly at that.

"I'm serious, though – those lads were _unstoppable_, for God's sake! Even _with _Holmes' help it took us another week to catch them! And the night we finally did...Well, let's just say it wasn't easy on Holmes. He got to them first – disrespecting my orders, _as_ _always. _So we showed up at their hiding spot, which was in a basement..._all right, _that doesn't matter. So, naturally, I thought Holmes already had them tied up – if not physically, then at least... mentally... well, you know I mean." There the inspector sighed. Watson took that as a bad sign.

"So, when we got to the door of their chamber," Lestrade continued, "we heard the most...unusual thing – and I'm not sure I'll ever forget it. We heard Holmes begging for mercy."

Watson simply couldn't feel anything at all. He just kept on sitting in his chair, looking at the floor as if his life depended on it and letting the words register in his mind. He gulped, as he couldn't take it any more. "You...I..."

Lestrade cut him off: "I ordered my lads to tear down the door immediately, and when they did so and when I saw Holmes... I... don't know. I _impulsively _took out my pistol and...shot those scoundrels down." His eyebrows went up as he tried to explain himself: "Nothing lethal, only a wound to the leg or the arm, you know, something to disable them. After all, I know it sounds cruel, but I really wanted them to suffer for the things they'd done, and not just take the easy way out. And Holmes, he was huddled in the far corner of the room with his hands over his face –"

"– Wait! Huddled? _Hands_ _over_ _his_ _face?_ This is _Holmes _you're talking about, you know that! He never hides, not from anyone!" Watson's whispers made Lestrade jump a little – he had expected him to be taken aback after hearing all this, but not that _much_.

"...Yes. And that's when I knew something serious was going on." Lestrade couldn't bear to see the look on the doctor's handsome features, that fear and regret that were mixing and getting stronger every second. His head instinctively bowed, and his eyes turning to see the floor. He swallowed audibly and continued, all the while purposely avoiding Watson's face.

"As my men were arresting the criminals, I finally got to him...and I actually had to pry his hands from his face. He looked terrible. Hadn't cried, of course, but was on the very verge of doing so. He kept looking at me, and I at him for...well, those must have been minutes! The man was completely shaken up and in shock, and, well, I just...didn't know. I didn't know what to do." Lestrade's voice lowered to the smallest whisper. He still had no courage to face Watson. "So... I _embraced_ him. I... I don't know, it was just that he seemed so lost. So terribly _lost _that I simply could not stand to see him like that." He finally looked over at Watson, whose eyes were closed when he gave the slightest of nods and cleared his throat, doing his best to hold his composure. But what Lestrade didn't know was that he was also trying to hide the nagging tears forming in there.

"He didn't respond to that at all – not that I expected any reaction. And he was the first to pull away: he looked me square in the eyes and said...he said your name."

Watson's eyes opened wide.

"And by that I don't mean 'Watson'. I mean...'John'." Lestrade thought he would let the information register in Watson's mind, but the doctor, after putting his head in his hands, asked him to continue.

Lestrade obliged, though somewhat hesitantly: "I didn't understand what he meant, and of course – he saw it. And he kept on repeating your name."

_John. Watson. John Watson. Watson! __**Watson!**__ Where – where is he? Where is Watson? __**Where is**_** he****?_!_**

"And all of a sudden he was running around the room, screaming bloody murder for you and trying to find you. In the end, my men managed to get a hold of him."

_You've_ _got to call him! Call him right away! Now! Call Watson, I'm begging you!_

"It was... quite shocking to see him so undone with... well, I suppose that was fear. And it was hysteria, as well. The night just kept on getting... stranger than ever. That was actually the first time I heard him beg for anything. _That_ was the first time I ever heard his voice _break."_

He paused there, and not intentionally, in fact – he got too lost in the memories. He could still hear Holmes' shouting and screaming and the face – _his_ _face _on which Lestrade could see the features contorted in a way he always thought impossible for him. What struck him the most were the eyes. He could see the enormous bags, the excessive redness, the wet streaks that began emerging. Holmes tried to hide and erase them, but there were simply too many of them, way too many, and so, some managed to escape and roll all the way down, or be carelessly painted over all over his cheeks and around his eyes. And he could see pain and fear and regret and sadness.

"It was... almost painful," Lestrade admitted, "to see the mighty _Holmes_ so... _scared_ without you there."

"Without... _me_?"

"Yes. I mean... you are his best friend, right?"

"...Yes...yes, I am."

When the long pause made the silence too hard to bear, Watson cleared his throat. "Please. Continue." Casting a slight glance at him, Lestrade saw his head was in his hands.

"All right, so, we used the first chance we got to call you, even though it was the middle of the night, but we thought you would understand."

"But... I don't remember –"

"I know. You didn't answer. Mrs. Watson, your wife, did. Said you weren't there." Lestrade avoided mentioning the insults she threw at all of them as well.

Watson suddenly remembered the call. It was true, Mary and he were in the bed for quite a while when the phone rang. He was exhausted from work, and Mary knew it, so in the end it was she who went to answer it. Watson tried to stay at least a little bit awake in case a patient was calling, but he didn't strain to hear what Mary was saying. So, when she returned, he asked who it was. And her answer was: "Nobody."

Watson stayed deep in his thoughts a bit too long and before he knew it, half of what Lestrade was saying had already disappeared in the air.

"...and it was true, I thought it a tad bit peculiar that a man like you, a respectable doctor, should be away at that hour, but then I realized you must have gone to see a patient. And the tone with which your wife addressed me was quite, well, _harsh_ and _irritated_ –" he stopped there for a second, "...i-if you don't mind me saying so."

Watson was trying hard to get a hang on inspector's words, but his mind kept nagging him. He nodded, slightly out of it. "No...no, it's...it's all right. Wait. She...said I _wasn't_ home?"

Lestrade's answer was hesitant. "Well..._yes. _Why...?"

Watson quickly interrupted: "Oh, nothing!" He really didn't want to discuss it now, and not with Lestrade.

Luckily, Lestrade didn't even give him time to think about that – instead, he continued his narrative and Watson realized he should rather concentrate on that.

"Anyway, I told Holmes what Mrs. Watson had told me. I was afraid he would lose it again, but instead, he just... you know those moments, and I guess you've seen them, since you've spent a great many years as his partner – those moments when you think something had affected him, but he just...pretends everything is fine and goes back to the upbeat, witty and, well, _normal_ self?"

The first image that came into Watson's mind was Holmes instantly changing his demeanour all those weeks ago when Watson took care of his leg, and later saw him crying. It was exactly what Lestrade described: Holmes hiding his feelings. He knew how to do that really well.

"He simply got up, shook my hand and after saying something that went like: 'Thank you for trying anyway, Lestrade. Good night!' he was gone. And I haven't seen him ever since," he sighed, "So, that's was my...story, doctor. I'm sorry it was so hard on you."

"Oh, no, inspector. Well, actually, you know..." – a swallow – "thank you."

VII.

Uncharacteristically, the first thing Watson did when he got out of Scotland Yard was to go sit on the first bench he managed to find.

As much as he thought fresh air would help him recover from the shock, ten minutes spent outdoors did nothing for his composure. He couldn't cope with the renewed stress and the pressure of fresh information whirling around inside his mind.

In the end, it turned out that his biggest worry was, in fact, Mary. He didn't know what he was feeling any more – was he hurt? Angry? Disappointed? There were so many questions, so many options, and unfortunately, quite a lack of answers.

He exhaled in frustration. The eagerness and energy with which he went to the Yard in the morning seemed to have evaporated over the course of those minutes he spent listening to Lestrade, and for the billionth time since he had left Baker Street he felt awfully and indescribably old.

He let his mind wander trying to run away from the worries the reality brought along. He observed the passers-by and wondered what they thought about him when they saw him sitting there, all alone with an undeniably grumpy look on his face. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for the challenges of the upcoming day. He reckoned sitting around wouldn't do him (or anyone else, for that matter) any good, anyway.

* * *

He arrived to Baker Street rather quickly, and wasn't surprised to see Mrs Hudson greet him warmly, and with what seemed to him to be an air of relief. He didn't waste any time before asking for Holmes.

"Oh, doctor," Mrs Hudson sighed, "again, he hasn't been out of his room since you left – I'm becoming more and more worried." She looked away from Watson. "But he won't let me in there. Not for a second. So, of course, he hasn't eaten anything either. Except the poison he keeps in there."

Now, for a second, Watson wasn't sure if she was joking or not – still, it made him hurry up to Holmes' room, calling out a "Thank you, Mrs Hudson!" to the landlady.

When he arrived to his former flatmate's door, he had a strange sense of having been in this position – in this situation – before and it – or even better, _they_ – were there all over again: the fear resulting in physical discomfort, sweating and exceptionally loud sound of heartbeat in his ears. Part of him didn't even want to see what was in that room, but there was no other way of making things better.

He closed his eyes, and then realized just how often he had been doing that lately.

_For_ _God's_ _sake_, _man_! _Pull it together! You've been to war, and all the way to bloody Afghanistan! You've seen things _far_ worse than what you will see in there!_

He tried to encourage himself, but all the time there was only one small thought nagging and telling him why it was different that time.

It was Holmes. It was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

* * *

_Only one chapter to go now... :(_


	5. Five

_A/N: Since I only put a K+ rating, I should warn you that this chapter gets really dark in some places, so if you are easily triggered, I suggest you not to read the first two parts of the text written in italics – those are flashbacks, divided from the rest of the text with horizontal lines. They don't contain anything graphic – only implied – but I'm warning you just to be safe. Also, the part starting with Watson asking Holmes about his injuries contains some harsh descriptions. The third part in italics (the phone call) is safe._

VIII.

"Who is it!"

There was rumbling followed by the sound of many various objects falling down, and then silence. From the place where Watson was standing when he had entered he couldn't see what was happening next to the windows, where the scream had erupted from.

What Watson had wanted to do was to go over to Holmes immediately, but then Holmes' manic scream reminded him of everything Lestrade had told him, and he stopped at once. Then he gulped.

"It's me, Holmes. Watson."

And then there was silence again.

"Watson..."

"I know, Holmes." Watson let the information sink in. "Lestrade told me."

"So you came running over here immediately."

Watson finally found the courage to face Holmes, and so he walked across the room as bravely as he could, never once hesitating or stopping in his track, the soldier in him emerging to the surface. That lasted for a rather short time, and when Watson came to the other side of the room and set his eyes on Holmes, he was again John Watson – and nothing more and nothing less than that. He was once again Sherlock Holmes' friend, his Boswell, as Holmes once creatively put it, and as he stood next to Holmes, he knew that there would be no other chance of making things right; there was only now and here, and Watson wasn't set on missing this opportunity.

"Holmes." He mustered his most authoritative voice and looked straight into Holmes' eyes, trying desperately to hold his gaze, even though Holmes was radiating sadness and Watson was made uncomfortable to witness such emotion when it came to his friend. To him, it seemed almost as a violation of privacy. But he dared not look away. "I'm not leaving until we talk about this thoroughly."

Holmes' lip curved up slightly as he observed Watson from the floor, where he was sitting. "Then you might as well call Mary and ask her to bring your things over here, because we will _not_ _discuss anything." _And with that he took one of the books now lying everywhere across the floor, opened it and turned his back to Watson, pretending to read.

Watson sat down in his armchair – well, the one he had always used before, while he was still living there. "Suit yourself; I'll stay here. And trust me, I know how much it bothers you when there are other people in your room." Holmes didn't bulge an inch. "And I'll tell you what is it that I'm feeling right now. I know you probably won't listen, but I don't care. I need to get this out, and I'll feel far more comfortable with someone I trust near me than while alone...or with Mary."

Now Watson wasn't exactly sure if he should say that, being the good husband that he was – if he should mention Mary in a sense which seemed to be, in a way, negative, but there was one thing he knew for sure: that would catch Holmes' attention.

And it turned out he was absolutely right, for the instant Holmes heard Mary being mentioned, he let the book fall from his fingers and turned around to see Watson.

"I'm listening. Entertain me."

Watson leaned back and began: "I'm sorry. That's the entire point of everything I'll tell you today. I'm sorry. I know I should have found some time to visit you, and I _do_ know how hard it was on you when I moved, but for God's sake, if you weren't so quiet about your feelings all the time –"

"Oh, you think you know? You don't have any idea as to how I am feeling!" Holmes interrupted angrily, but the reaction he got from Watson wasn't the one he expected.

"So you admit it!" Watson was triumphant, "That's good, that's very good. See, now we're progressing..."

"We're not –"

"You've got to talk to me, Holmes! Or if you want to talk to someone else, feel free to say so, I won't mind. But you simply cannot bottle this up inside!"

"I _won't _speak to anyone about this, don't you understand? Do you really think you can simply waltz in here and I'll open up to you because you're John Watson? Well, you're wrong. That is not who I am. That is not what I do. I don't – I _can't_ lose my mind, and it seems to me that _that_ is exactly what you are implying! I can take care of myself, contrary to the popular belief, and I am _all right_!"

"So you call crying in front of my house "being all right"?

Holmes' eyes twitched at the mention of that incident. He cleared his throat. "That was a momentary weakness, and nothing more."

"Look, this is leading us nowhere. I..." Watson shook his head, too tired and frustrated to continue. "You know what...what unnerves me the most? You were calling for me. When Lestrade found you. And...I won't say I know why, but I do understand. And I understand if you were upset after Mary told you I couldn't answer." He had decided not to tell Holmes that he had been at home. He wasn't sure what would be his reaction. "But you – or your subconscious mind – wanted to see me, and I know nobody would be thrilled to have no-one to turn to after going through such an ordeal. And I'm sorry."

Holmes gulped audibly, and then grabbed his neck lightly as if that would suppress the sound. "You shouldn't be. You shouldn't apologize for my weaknesses."

"Holmes –" Watson's voice echoed around the room warningly. Holmes turned to look at him, but he was not scared or angry or hurt. He was lightly smiling.

Watson was baffled. They stood like that for a few seconds, until the strangeness of the situation got the best of Watson. "What?" He whispered as a small smile tugged on his face.

"I haven't heard my name being said in _that_ tone for a long time."

Watson was taken aback realizing how bitter-sweet that sounded. "Yes, well...it looks like I've still got it...in me," he stated, and got a small smile out of Holmes that faded almost instantly. Then the detective got up, stiff from spending countless days on the floor, and sat on the armchair opposite Watson's, the furniture squeaking as he lowered himself.

"There's no way around you, is there?"

"No."

Some moments passed in silence, and Watson didn't pressure Holmes into anything. He knew whatever it was that Holmes wanted to tell him would eventually come out; he only had to give him some time to find internal peace. And he knew discussing feelings was quite foreign to him, so he didn't want to meddle with his thoughts.

"Before I explain everything," began Holmes, "You must know I _do_ _not_ intend to repeat this. _Ever again._ And I expect you not to talk about it again too, or even bring it up." Now he took a deep breath. "I thought... that you had been killed."

That was a kind of answer Watson wasn't expecting.

Holmes saw that. And still he went on, not leaving Watson a moment to process anything. "When they captured me. Their... leader, you could say, told me they had killed you. He was playing with my mind."

"But why would –"

"It was revenge. I'd already caught him once – years ago. It was before you met me. I can tell you, he was just as demented as he is now."

* * *

"_Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It's _nice_ to see you again."_

_Silence. The voice reappeared._

"_You don't seem surprised to discover that I am the one responsible for all this...Are you alone?"_

_The silence persisted. A malicious smile, then –_

"_Get him."_

_There were footsteps and shuffling and tying and blindfolding._

"_You're weak without the police. Or your doctor...Yes, I've heard of him. You could even say... we met."_

"_...Leave him out of this." A different voice, hoarse but resolute._

"_Ha..." Laughter. "I don't think I can. Not now."_

"_What?" The resolution was gone._

"_You see...I was on my way here... and a man_ – the man_ was in my way...I don't _like _people standing in my way."_

_A wink in the dark to a partner in crime._

"_So I got him _out _of my way." Calm._

"_You are lying." But the voice was slightly shaking._

"_Are you sure?"_

* * *

"I know that wasn't possible, there was no way it could have been. I know that now," he rambled monotonously, his voice getting hoarser and hoarser. "But back then, my mind was...I don't know if this makes any sense, but it was... turned off. They inflicted so much pain on me, and I believe I know what happened – and maybe you are also familiar with that. I've read some studies about how human brain can shut down when all the impulses it receives cause excessive pain."

* * *

"_Boys, boys...he's had enough of that...I've got a better idea."_

_Moans and panting still echoed._

"_Don't give me that look, you are in no position to do that. And you have to be punished, I won't – I _can't _let you go away again. The first time _I _had to suffer – this time...you've got to pay."_

_A malicious grin._

"_Give me the knife. And the lighter. I'll tell you what I did to him. I may even demonstrate."_

_There was pain, desperation and a twisted symphony of shrieks, moans and cries and an evil voice saying terrible things and it lasted for a long, long time before..._

"_Oh...this will be a beautiful decoration. So that it can ...remind you of me. No, I'm not done yet. Untie him."_

"_But..."_

"_**I said untie him!**" The rope fell limply to the floor. "Do you want to know what he did in his last moment? Do you, huh? Do you...? **He screamed your name as I stabbed**..."_

"_**No!**"_

_The door made a booming sound._

* * *

"Wait," Watson began, "I don't understand – they kidnapped you?" There was a quiver in his voice at the end.

"No." Holmes stated finally, "I...I let them get a hold of me. Before you say anything, you have to know I had my reasons, and they were good: I had to keep them there, keep them from running away. Lestrade was there somewhere. If they had known that, things would have gone differently. I decided it was less harm to spend some time with them than..."

"Less harm? With _them––_ Less harm? Holmes..."

Holmes only closed his eyes and continued: "Lestrade was there. Besides, the place was so small not even he could have lost his way.

"Holmes, this isn't a time for jokes..."

"He was going to come."

"...How were you injured? Lestrade said..." Watson trailed off.

"I'm afraid 'injured' isn't fit enough a word to describe... _it_ correctly."

"Holmes, please...don't do that, not to a doctor – not to me. First you come to me with your leg all covered in blood, then I see your hip, then Lestrade tells me it happened there...please tell me what happened. Please. I can't take this anymore – I can't." Watson realized he must have sounded really desperate, because (after hesitating for a few moments) Holmes said:

"You want to see them. The injuries." It wasn't a question.

Watson wasn't feeling as confident as his nod looked, but he had decided not to let fear of what he would see stand in his way. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"...No. I can't –"

"_Please. _I – _we need_ to see how bad it is._"_

Holmes sighed, stood up stiffly and turned to look at Watson once again: "Are you sure about this?"

"I am." Watson stood up as well.

Holmes reluctantly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a web of big, deep scars – some of which were still in process of healing – spreading all over his torso. Most of the skin they were covering was burnt. The hip was the most painful sight to see – there, the skin had been literally cut off with a knife and Watson could see bare flesh. It made him sick and he averted his eyes almost immediately. He couldn't stand to look at that massacre, not when it had happened to his friend. Not to Holmes. It simultaneously made Watson's blood boil and tears spring to his eyes. He was debating going to Lestrade and making him let him see those bastards, so that he could show them pain. He almost promised himself he would do that, but was brought back to his senses when Holmes started buttoning his shirt back up.

"Holmes..." Watson instinctively extended his hand towards him to stop him, so that he could look at the wounds once again – only this time as a doctor – and see what had to be done, but Holmes instantly jumped back with a look of terror on his face (which made Watson's heart clench), and he whispered: "Don't. I don't want anyone touching them."

"Holmes. I know this is hard, but be reasonable. You've – we've got to do something about this. You can't let it rot away."

"Well, I didn't..."

"Did you do anything? Anything at all?"

After a short pause during which Watson began to panic slightly, Holmes said:  
"I...took a shower."

Watson nodded hesitantly, frowning, certain it must have hurt because of the burns, and then realizing that was probably what Holmes had wanted.: "All right. That's... something... I could–"

"No!"

Watson sighed – this wasn't going to work. He realized he first had to calm Holmes down in order to get him accept his help. Holmes buttoned up his shirt, and they both sat back down.

"And your leg? What did they...?"

"...I did that to myself." He explained it further when Watson inquiringly raised his eyebrow. "Experiment. Drugs, hallucination, whichever explanation you fancy the most among those."

"My God... How could you...?"

"Nevermind."

"But..."

"Just–"

"No, no – I understand, I'll leave it..." Without realising it, Watson started massaging his temples. "_God_, what did they..."

"I _don't_ want to talk about that part." Pause. " But...I didn't know what to think, and back then it seemed like what they were telling me was the truth because I... I_ couldn't_ think," and there he broke off with a forceful exhale full of anguish. "That's not who I am, Watson. That doesn't _ever_ happen to me. That is – _unforgivable._" He was silent for a moment.

"Then Lestrade arrived and, well, _saved _me." It took a lot of effort to say those words.

"Then I suddenly found myself in the Yard. By then I had managed to think everything through – rationally, that is. And I knew everything was in perfect order. There were three reasons why: One, nobody would have asked you to pay them a visit at that time, because everyone knew that that way your life would have been put to risk; two, you wouldn't have been thrilled to do it, either; and three, Mary would have _never_ let you go outside alone at that hour, I was sure of that. Besides, as much as she loathes me, she would have told Lestrade you were... hurt. Or worse, she would have blamed me. But she didn't, and I realized you were safe and alive."

Watson suddenly thought of the landlady. "Mrs. Hudson said she heard some voices? I... don't tell me somebody... like that came here."

Awkward pause. "...No, that was me. Drugged. I...no... never mind," and a dismissive wave.

He didn't go any further; he didn't want Watson to worry even more than now: the man seemed badly shaken up as it was, and he didn't need to know what Holmes' hallucination was about.

"I'm..._losing_ my mind, Watson." Holmes said finally.

Minutes passed once again in mutual silence, both men deep in their thoughts and troubles. Watson felt a huge weight settle on him when he heard Holmes say that. He sighed in despair – he knew exactly how much Holmes cared about and treasured his own mind.

Then, after giving it some thought, Watson finally decided to ask:

"Why didn't you come to me later?"

Holmes didn't answer.

Watson persisted. "Or why didn't you tell me this when I stitched your leg up?" He realized he was getting agitated, but couldn't stop himself from raising his voice. "I would have listened! I would have helped you! For God's sake, Holmes, I am your friend!"

"You..." Holmes was afraid to finish the question.

"Yes, I am!"

Holmes seemed to think about it for a moment. "I don't know why I didn't come to you."

Watson didn't interrupt him.

"I guess I was afraid I would...do something..."

"Like what?"

"I don't know!" Holmes gulped, "I don't know what happens when... It _never_ happens to _me_. But I wasn't feeling..."

_Stable enough, _Watson finished the sentence Holmes was too proud to say out loud.

"Or perhaps..." Holmes continued, "I was subconsciously afraid Mary would confront me again and I would be reminded of what I'd lost and who I'd lost it to."

Watson suddenly realized he would have to tell him. There was little use lying, and it definitely wasn't fair.

"Holmes," he began, "I have to apologize for something."

Holmes looked at him, frowning.

* * *

"_Dr Watson's home?"_

…

"_I'm terribly sorry to call at this time of night, but I need him to..."_

…

"_Excuse me?"_

…

"_That isn't important right now, but we really need..."_

…

_Lestrade sighed. "Yes, Mr Sherlock Holmes needs him."_

…

"_Madam... Madam – there's no need for such language – please, if you could just."_

…

"_Excuse me? He isn't – right... but, surely, he knows how dangerous it is to–"_

…

"_Not in London? "_

…

"_No, no, no, there's nothing strange about that… Do you happen to know the number we could use to call him?"_

…

"_But …"_

…

"_Yes, of course … Thank you anyway. Good–"_

_The speakerphone is put back into its place._

"–_bye."_

* * *

"What Mary said when you called from Scotland Yard... It wasn't true. I had been at home."

"...Oh," was all Holmes said. After thinking about it, he added: "That isn't so terrible."

Watson definitely wasn't expecting that. "That isn't...? Holmes, you could have been dead and I wouldn't have known just because...!" He stopped himself before he could say something unforgivable.

"Why are you shouting at me? It's her you're angry with."

"I...and you aren't?"

"Why should I be? As I'd said, I had by then realized you were all right and the only reason Lestrade still called you was because I didn't manage to tell him not to."

Watson could sense that Holmes wasn't telling him the truth, that he was hiding something.

"For God's sake, Holmes! Yes, now you say that, and I should have known you would!"

"I'm saying it because..."

"Because you don't know _how_ you should feel! Your ability to ignore all your feelings makes you proud, but you are not a machine! You can't suppress everything! You see, now it's all bursting out of you! You are human – and, no, _don't _look at me like that, because that isn't an insult. It's the truth, and it's all right."

Holmes sighed. "As much as I appreciate your heartfelt monologue, I do believe I know myself well enough to say I am not angry. In fact, I even understand her. She's afraid she'll lose you – afraid I'll lead you to your death."

"Underst–– You were tortured! Mentally! Physically! You wanted to hear me – you needed someone familiar, you needed to be sure I was all right... She took that away from you! And then you yelled at me because I wasn't there – when I could have been – telling me you hate me for that, and now it's suddenly 'all right' and you 'understand' and pretend it wasn't hard on you at all!"

Holmes couldn't remember ever seeing Watson so angry as he was then – he had gotten out of his armchair and was screaming at him from up above as Holmes seemed to sink deeper and deeper into his armchair. But then Watson hit a nerve.

"No, don't talk about that, I beg of you." He somehow couldn't seem to look at Watson in the eye. "I wasn't myself. I was alone for weeks, destroying myself with all kinds of drugs and substances..."

"_God_."

"...and there was no-one to pull me out of the abyss. I didn't know what I was saying, or how to stop myself – I never meant that. I don't hate you and I never could. I can only hope you accept my apologies."

They both chose not to mention the tears.

_So that settles that, _Watson thought. And even though he never believed Holmes hated him, a weight was nonetheless lifted off his shoulders.

"It's all right, old boy. I knew."

"And you got something wrong." Holmes added, "The worst thing about that entire... situation... wasn't the torture, or the pain, or the injuries. It was the thought they did that to _you._ I couldn't stand thinking they _dared_ do that."

"But they didn't. They lied – it wasn't true."

"I _thought _it was. It still won't go away."

"And after all that, how can you tell me you were perfectly all right when you heard I wasn't there?"

"...I wasn't. But...am I ever?" Watson never thought he would see Holmes look defeated, but at that moment he was proved wrong. "I don't know...I don't know if I can rely on my mind anymore...it failed me once – maybe it will happen again – and all that because of... _sentiment._"

All of a sudden, Watson made a move to bring his armchair closer to Holmes'. Holmes was startled, but did nothing to interfere with that. At last, their armchairs were side by side, maybe an inch between them – almost touching. Then Watson sat back and put his arm on the armrest**.** He cleared his throat. "Give me your hand," he demanded softly.

"What for?"

"I'll show you the nice side of sentiment."

Holmes kept looking forward, his eyes completely focused on one precise bullet hole in the wall, not once moving. Watson looked down to see his hand twitching lightly as he raised it a little, then retreated it, then raised it again. Finally, the detective's hand made its way to the armrest, next to Watson's.

First he eyed Watson's hand suspiciously, then looked back at the wall. Nothing happened for a while and Watson thought his idea wouldn't work, so he reluctantly started moving his hand back to his lap when suddenly, Holmes clumsily grabbed his hand. They stayed like that for a few moments, Holmes leaning on his other hand, unsure of where to look. Watson threw a glance at him, and smiled when he saw his eyes darting all over the room.

"Seriously, Watson...what would people say if they saw us like this?" Holmes asked nonchalantly, but Watson noted how he was gulping more often than was normal.

"But they can't see us, so I don't care."

"You seem to forget Mrs Hudson, who could enter any moment now..."

"Holmes, just...!" Watson shot a pleading glance upwards. "I'm _here. _Does it feel better now?"

Holmes nodded, and Watson presumed that was all he was going to get from Holmes. But then he heard Holmes say:

"_Now_ it's...all right."

Watson gripped his hand harder, smiling and glad Holmes was now finally relaxed. "And you are not losing your mind." he assured him.

"Oh?"

"Indeed," Watson said earnestly. Then, with a smile, he added: "After all, everybody goes through crises of some kind. You'll be yourself again in no time."

Holmes smiled and realized how grateful he was to have a friend like Watson, someone who wouldn't judge or laugh at him, who wouldn't press him into doing something uncomfortable, and who would manage to bring solace through the smallest of acts – but such acts that brought the biggest comfort. Holmes pondered the way he had treated Watson and realized he should have given him more credit, since he helped him the most in times of trouble, and never once considered Holmes strange or worse yet, weak. Now he knew: he had a _friend._

"Care to stay for dinner, Watson?"

"It's only one o'clock in the afternoon, Holmes."

"Oh. Is it?"

"Yes." Watson chuckled. "I won't even bother asking how long you have stayed in this mess of a room."

"Good."

And then the silence came back and persisted for a few more minutes. Watson was glad – even relieved he had managed to read the signs: every single little misplaced twitch on Holmes' face, every hesitation and lingering look. He had seen it, and he knew those were silent cries for help. He hoped he managed to help. Speaking of help...

"Would you let me tend to it? It would make your wounds hurt less. And they need to be cleaned and checked for infection..." he trailed off.

"I'll let you, just... not now." Watson was already starting to protest, so Holmes quickly added "In a minute!", as well as "...Thank you," his voice was still somewhat hoarse, and at that moment, Watson knew: he did help – maybe even more than he thought.

"That is what friends are for," he delivered in the most confident tone, for once perfectly at ease with using that word when referring to Holmes.

And Holmes, who wasn't used to being in such situations, contemplated his next move. "Are they? Good," he finally said. "Although, you could have told me that sooner." He let some time pass before resuming: "And I insist that you stay here for...what did we say? Lunch?"

"But Mary—"

"...has lunch with you _every_ _day._ For God's sake, man, you cannot possibly be afraid of your woman! Some soldier from Afghanistan, look at him... Besides, I don't think you'd enjoy her company right now. "

"You're right," Watson sighed, "I don't know what to do – I have to talk to her."

"But not now. You're staying for lunch. Besides, I can help you think of something clever to say..."

"Holmes, if I let you, next week I'll be divorced."

"You mean _reborn_?"

"Holmes! This is serious!" And even though he meant it, he couldn't stop himself from smiling as he was saying it.

"That is why I'm here to help. You could say, for example...oh! You'll say that..." And on went Holmes, rambling at a speed Watson found too fast to be able to pay attention.

He smiled, letting him talk. It wasn't like Holmes needed an audience, anyway. Only a doctor. Their hands were still together

_Fin_

* * *

_Thanks for sticking with me, folks! :)_


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